Chapter Text
Tony
He looks hungry, Tony thinks, first.
Then, he processes how attractive the guy is and that the suit he’s wearing is expensive but his haircut is cheap. And that he’s young. Way too young for Jed to be—ah.
It’s a Government-sponsored military gala, and all the big names in defense are here, both public and private. The guests are uber-rich or uber-powerful, often both, but the backdrop of democracy lends everything a classier gloss than the shit Stark Industries used to get invited to, so it’s not the kind of party where escorts are the norm. Jed is an evil son-of-a-bitch and everyone knows it, but he must want to make a couple of people particularly angry tonight.
This particular escort looks hungry.
“Stark!”
“Jed, how are ya.” Tony gives him a thin smile, ignoring Jed’s extended hand while taking in the creature he brought with him. Jed is only a couple of years older than Tony, but that still means he’s got to have at least a couple of decades on this kid. Fresh-faced and narrowly escaping the descriptor of 'gaunt', the escort has rich brown eyes and a pretty mop of wavy brown hair.
“It’s a good turnout, hm?” Jed comments. The event is packed because a couple of rich assholes are getting pointless awards for not actively trying to harm the most vulnerable populations of the world–-Tony is one of the assholes, but still.
“Big Brother calls, we all gotta get in line.” In truth, he’s doing this as a favor to Pepper. “Who’s your friend?”
“Oh, this is Peter.”
“Nice to meet you Peter. I’m Tony.”
They shake hands—as he suspected, Peter is all sinew and tendon. Tony has to fight the urge to flag down a server and divest them of their entire platter of finger-foods right now.
“One would think you require no introduction, Stark,” Jed quips, looking at his companion as though to gage Peter’s reaction. And yes, there was obvious recognition in Peter’s eyes, but it was quickly tempered by politeness. “Peter’s been praising your work. Haven’t you Peter?”
“Yeah, it’s great stuff.” His voice is a bit scratchy and makes him seem even younger than Tony first thought. Early side of twenties, maybe even late teens. A part of Tony’s brain already considered and discarded the thought of calling the cops, but if he has to he is fully prepared to intervene and get this kid out of what has to be a bad situation. “I’m—uh, obviously.”
“Anything in particular about my work catch your eye?”
Peter blinks, perhaps not having expected the question. “Um. Well, your green energy initiatives are gonna save the Earth from climate change.” Oh dear, put like that... “Your rebuilding efforts housed thousands of people after the Chitauri mass casualty, a-as I'm sure you know. And the new structure of your company is redefining CEO salaries and employee benefits. Oh, and the arc-reactor core program is nothing short of a marvel—uh. Stark Industries is doing lots of cool things.”
“The arc-reactor core?” Tony wouldn’t have guessed that an escort would know anything about his not-yet-publicized arc-reactor core. His extremely confidential, only-discussed-via-encrypted-starkmail arc-reactor core. Hm. “And where did you hear about that?”
Peter shrugs. “I read about it online, I think.”
“I see.” He’s definitely lying. How intriguing. “Well I’m glad you approve.”
Jed pats Peter on the lower back. “He’s a bright young thing, this guy. Watch out for him in ten years—he’ll run us both out of business.”
Peter laughs politely but, interestingly, Jed’s warning sounded sincere.
“What’s your area of study?” Tony asks him.
But they are interrupted before Peter can respond.
“Stark! Can I have a moment?”
His own CIO Phil walks up to them, and Jed puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder to steer him away. Tony notices Phil notice this, but beyond looking displeased with Jed he doesn’t comment on it.
“We’ll leave you to it, Stark,” says Jed, not even acknowledging Tony’s CIO. “Come Peter, let’s go meet some of the other, less important people.”
They wander off, and the line of people vying for Tony’s attention moves up; after Phil there are more powerful people and their spouses, groups of congresspersons, senators, independent contractors who run their businesses the way Stark Industries used to. Pepper checks in on him at one point, but he sends her back to her fiancée—he could have brought a date with him tonight if he’d wanted one, he simply chose not to. It’s easier to leave early if you show up unaccompanied, and he promised Pepper that he’d stay for the actual award but he does not intend to hang around a minute longer.
Almost an hour of mind-numbing chatter passes and Tony finds himself wondering where Jed and his paid-for companion are. He’s not going to leave this event without making sure the kid is safe—Jed’s reputation isn’t particularly savory, and while this is the youngest person he’s brought with him to an event, there are rumors...
He makes his way to the bar and doesn’t see them there either, so he pretends to be engrossed in his phone to avoid conversation, then actually becomes engrossed in his phone. According to his news feed the guy from Queens in the red-and-blue onesie saved a bus full of people last week, and it’s stupid that they still haven’t figured out his secret identity. He may need to devote more than his passing attention to it, maybe swing by Queens on his next patrol--
“I forgot to say congratulations on your award.”
It’s Jed, seemingly conjured out of nowhere.
He leans his elbows on the bar next to Tony, and the surreptitious glance Tony casts around reveals that he’s unaccompanied for now. “I’m sure your father would be proud, Stark.”
Tony toasts his glass in Jed’s direction, and doesn’t bother thanking him. Jed runs Stark Industries’ fourth (or perhaps fifth, after this year’s Forbes) closest competitor; they both know that tonight means nothing and that Howard would be horrified at the direction in which Tony has taken Stark Industries the past few years.
“Where’d your friend go?”
“You want him?”
Tony’s gut clenches with disgust, and so does his jaw.
Jed smirks; the lines around his mouth cast into particular relief by the lighting from the bar counter. He’s not bad looking, Tony has to admit that to himself—still has a full head of elegant rusty-blond hair, sharp blue eyes, and he keeps himself in shape. That’s no excuse for him to be a fucking creep, of course, but if he wanted to he could probably attract an age-appropriate version of the escort he brought with him tonight without having to pay.
“If the rumor mill is to be believed that’s not really your thing, but... I’m not stupid. He’s nice to look at and he’s got a brain. If you want him, you’d better get it in before he graduates and gets a real job, and doesn’t need to trick anymore.”
Tony looks down at his empty glass, now actively working on not throwing up. “He’s in college?”
“Just started.”
He has to ask. “How old is he, Jed?”
Jed rolls his eyes and signals the waiter to refill Tony’s scotch. “Relax. He’s eighteen.”
Christ.
“He really is going to run circles around us in the industry one day,” Jed adds. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”
“Hm.”
“What? I’m trying to get a taste while I can. You can’t blame me for that, can you?”
Tony lets out a low breath. He’s done awful things in his life; inherited an empire built on war profiteering, the kind of stuff that running around being Iron Man will never be able to balance out. But that was before, and he wants to think that even the person he used to be, at his lowest point of drunken coked-out stupor, would never have taken advantage of an eighteen-year-old escort who looks like he needs a burger.
“Guess not.” He nods a thanks at the waiter who just topped him off. “Is he with an agency?”
“No. I heard about him from a personal contact who shall remain nameless.” Jed sounds triumphant. The kind of currency this conversation will afford him can’t be quantified. Tony will owe him way more than money. “I can refer him to you. Way he talks about you, he might throw in some bonuses for free. I wouldn’t be surprised.” A hint of bitter jealously tinges his smile. “Must be nice, to be the great Tony Stark.”
“Has its perks.” And then: “He’s... full service?”
“Yes. Costs a pretty penny–he’s smart, like I said. But worth it.”
That’s it. Tony swallows down the bile that’s climbing up his throat, and then pastes on a smirk of his own as he straightens. “Perfect. Where is he?”
“Bathroom around the corner. He had to make a call.”
Tony nods and takes off without another word, making for the nearest men’s. The attendant pockets the hundred-dollar bill he is handed without batting an eye, and moves to stand in front of the door after it shuts, preventing anyone from walking in after Tony.
“...so much fun! I am a beer-pong master.”
The voice is coming from the only stall that’s closed. There’s no one else in here; it’s too perfect.
“Hah, of course responsibly. Responsibly is my middle name!”
Tony leans against the pristine marble sink and crosses his arms over his chest, and knows he’s been noticed because the quality of Peter’s falsely cheery tone is edging towards panic.
“I promise. I do, I promise! Um. Gotta go, okay?” A low chuckle. “Yeah. Love you too.”
The door swings open and Peter walks out gingerly, tucking his phone into his pocket. He seems shocked to discover the identity of the person waiting for him.
“Mr Stark!” he blurts. “It’s you!”
“Sure is.” Tony nods, allowing this, as a splotchy blush blooms on Peter’s cheeks. Red looks purple in the blue light of the bathroom.
“Uh. Wow. Um, can I help you?”
Tony motions at him with his chin. “Who were you lying to just now?”
Peter swallows. “My aunt.” He tries to smile; it’s an endearing attempt, but unsuccessful. “She thinks I’m at a frat party.”
“Cute.”
Peter shrugs. “Can’t really tell her the truth.”
“That some guy who’s old enough to be your dad paid you to attend a DOD gala with him tonight?”
“Uh. I’m not confirming that.” This time, the smile is smaller but genuine. It’s unsettlingly pretty, and Tony blames Jed's disgusting comments just now for even noticing. “Gotta pay my loans off somehow.”
“Where do you go to school?”
“Columbia.” He hesitates for a second, then adds. “And I’m taking a bunch of MIT’s online modules.”
Tony nods. “Which field?”
“Biotech. Bioengineering.”
“Where do you live?”
“Queens.”
“With your aunt.” Peter nods. “And you commute every day?”
“Yes.”
The more questions he’s asked the more confused Peter starts to look.
“Is your aunt your only source of financial support?”
“...I’m my own source of financial support.”
Tony had suspected, and was afraid of, exactly that answer. “Parents?”
“Dead.”
“No uncle?”
“He died too.”
So he has no one. One person. And it’s made him vulnerable to vultures like Jed, and who knows what else.
“...Why are you asking me all this, Mr Stark?”
When Tony doesn’t respond immediately Peter glances at the door, where the translucent glass reveals the silhouette of the attendant stationed in front of it, guarding it. It’s not fear, however, that makes Peter’s appealing mouth drop open.
He looks back at Tony, eyes widening with realization.
“What do you want from me, Mr Stark?”
But it’s not an accusation.
“I want to help you.”
Peter takes a step towards him. He has a natural guileless air that he must have learned to play into, and no wonder he can charge a 'pretty penny'.
“Help me how?”
“I want to improve your current setup,” Tony says frankly. “And I’m not trying to ‘save’ you, for the record; you’re free to do whatever you want, including letting other people pay to have sex with you. I’m not asking for control over your life. I’d just like provide a bit of a cushion, that’s all.”
If he’s is going to keep doing this, Tony just wants to make sure it’s out of want, not need. That’s all.
Peter takes another step towards him. “And how would you do that?”
“Simple. I’ll pay you five times whatever Jed is paying you a night, every night, for as long as you let me.”
His pink lips form a shocked little 'o'.
It's in this moment that Tony realizes he needs to stop noticing things about Peter’s body.
“Starting as soon as you’ll let me, of course.”
“I.” Peter takes another careful step. Tony has all the power here, all the control—of the situation, socially, financially, even literally, he is taller and broader than this hungry kid—but there’s an instant where he feels cornered. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious.”
Peter’s final step brings him to a halt right in front of Tony. He looks awed to the point of disbelief.
“Jed pays me five hundred dollars a night,” he says cautiously. “And that’s not counting the, um, extras.”
“I’ll give you ten thousand. Every day.”
There’s a beat of stunned silence.
Then: “That’s twenty times.”
“Hm?”
“You said you’d pay me five times what Jed paid me, before.”
“Then let’s round it to twenty.”
Peter’s expressive eyes search Tony’s face for something.
“I... don’t think I’d know what to do with that much money.”
“Trust me, it’s not hard to find places where money can do good. I have too much of it, and lots of people need it.” People like you, he thinks. And it is for people like Peter that he does this—that he’s become this person.
Since his belated goddamn epiphany after being captured Tony has found a new addiction to replace all of his old ones; the feeling that comes from doing something that is purely righteous. It’s why he puts on that heavy suit every night; he does it for the people who need his help, like this kid. And the feeling that comes with it—it’s uncomplicated, and good. This, now, feels good. To be able to offer Peter this—it’s pure.
Peter sinks to his knees.
“Wh—“
“What do you want first?” Peter asks, breathy and eager, and he leans forward—
“Whoa whoa hey, stop that.”
Tony stumbles backwards, sideways, away, shuffling towards the paper towel dispenser and almost colliding with it. A sickening lick of desire is quickly stifled by the caliber of his revulsion, because fucking hell. Fuck. No. That is not what he meant, and his heart breaks that that's what Peter assumed.
Peter had started to tip forward but his reflexes are lightning-fast and prevent him from falling flat on his face. Instead, he looks up at Tony with even more confusion. Still on his knees. Still with his jaw hanging open. Still breathing rather heavily.
Tony looks at the floor in order not to notice anything else.
“To be clear, this would be a—uh, platonic arrangement. No actual sexual favors needed in exchange for the expense.”
“...Platonic.”
“Yes.”
When nothing else seems forthcoming, Tony has to look back up.
Peter blinks for several silent, panting seconds, then he finally closes his mouth. He seems upset.
“You don’t want to have sex with me?”
That’s not—“I don’t pay for sex. And no offense, but you’re like twelve.” He’s really not, nor does he look it either, but this will work best for both of them if Tony sticks to that version of the story.
“I’m eighteen.”
“Whatever.”
Peter gets to his feet and squares his well-defined shoulders, and Tony starts to wonder if he’s offended him somehow.
“I don't understand.”
“I want to help you. I still have a few billions left that I’m trying to get rid of. That's it.”
But offense seems to have crossed over into suspicion.
“...Why?”
It’s a fair question.
Why, Tony?
Peter isn't the first escort he's ever met. He’s not the first escort he’s ever met who is in college—hell, he’s probably not even the first escort Tony’s ever met who goes to Columbia. And his first thought had been—well, the instinct to feed Peter, immediately followed by the desire to protect him. He’s done it before; helped a few twenty-something aspiring models who tried to reward him in the same way that Peter just did (and were summarily rejected as well). But the others... he got them jobs, or put them in touch with industry.
He’s never offered this type of arrangement to anyone before.
“Is it because of what I said about the arc reactor core?”
Of course.
“Yes.” Tony wipes his palms on his pants leg despite not actually having washed his hands for any reason. “Yes tell me; how did you find out about that?”
“I shouldn’t have mentioned it,” Peter mutters. He makes a face. “I can’t tell you.”
That piques Tony’s interest even more.
“Well, maybe in time you’ll come to trust me.”
“You’re... assuming I’ll say yes?”
Tony smirks a little. “It’s an offer that’s hard to refuse, no? I think you should take it, personally. But I’d also understand if you’d rather call up TMZ tomorrow morning and tell them about this conversation instead.” He pretends to think about it. “Granted, it might make me look even more charitable and magnanimous than I’ve been lately... could make for good PR.” He doesn’t need any more good PR. He’s had all the free good PR he could ever want these past few years: the weapons-manufacturer-mogul turned green-energy-philanthropist angle hasn’t tired out yet. “Kind of a win-win for me, when you think about it.”
“I’d never do that,” Peter says. “I promise I’d never, sir.”
“It’d be your right.” Tony shrugs. “I understand that you have no real reason to trust me other than what’s in the press, but you trusted Jed, so... I suppose I just assumed I’d make it through your vetting process.”
“I vet people who want to pay me to have sex with them. You’re just giving me free stuff. That’s... weird.”
And for all that he gets why this is weird, that right there breaks Tony’s heart some more. Because Peter’s life has led him to the point where he is more suspicious of Tony’s offer than he is of a predatory asshole like Jed. And that's not okay.
“I won’t deny it’s unusual.” He’s not trying to gaslight anyone, here. “But I trust you’ve been keeping up with the news for the past couple of years? Giving people free stuff has kind of become my thing.”
Time magazine called it ‘Tony Stark’s systematic whittling of the Stark fortune’ in last year’s cover, but ‘giving people free stuff’ is just as accurate.
Peter nods, thoughtful. “Guess that’s true.” He winces. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, by the way. And I-I’m sorry that I assumed—“
“Oh no, don’t worry about that.”
“I, right, well. It’s just... it’s... a lot.”
“Of course. I understand.” Maybe he should have started with less money? There’s just something about this kid that makes him want to offer up the world, and a kind world at that. “I want to help you, Peter, not cause you problems.”
Peter bites his lower lip, an unintentionally devastating gesture.
“...Can I think about it?”
Peter
He leaves the gala with Jed and gets through the night with his head full of Tony Stark's offer. Jed actually stops and asks him if something’s on his mind, at one point, and Peter has to redouble his efforts in order to avoid talking about what happened in the bathroom.
His life could change completely, and it feels unreal. It has to be too good to be true. Tony Stark wants to take him on as some sort of pet project and rescue him; that’s something out of his early teenage fantasies, not his gritty real life. Ten thousand dollars a day is so much money Peter’s brain can barely fathom it; it would cover any expense Peter has, plus any that he could possibly come up with. He could stop sleeping with people for money. It would finally pay off May’s mortgage, and the debt caused by those horrendous hospital bills from Uncle Ben’s final weeks. He could move to the Upper West Side and buy time away from his endless daily commute. It would mean he could buy enough food to eat the number of excess calories he really needs every day. It would mean he could upgrade his spider-suit to be bulletproof, finally--hell, he could have multiple suits. He could help so many more people.
And Stark doesn’t even want to have sex with Peter in order to do it.
And...
And that’s just Peter’s goddamn luck, isn’t it?
*
The next morning, Peter’s day takes on an unreal quality as he struggles to reconcile his memories from the night before with his morning classes, and the two additional papers he's apparently going to have to find time to write. He sits alone at lunch and checks his bank account to make sure Jed deposited their agreed-upon amount and sees that the nine-hundred-dollar payment was made right on time—and Tony Stark’s voice glibly saying ‘ten thousand’ echoes in the back of his mind like an illicit daydream. He gets less than a third of a paper done after tearing through the meagre cafeteria portions, and knows he comes off as distracted during his afternoon lab, but he can't help it.
Giving people free stuff has kind of become my thing.
I want to help you, Peter, not cause you problems.
May texts him to check in and ask what he wants for dinner, but he lies about meeting up with ‘friends’ in order to patrol. He doesn't have any real friends around here anymore; Ned is in San Francisco and MJ is in Boston, but he’s lied to May about having fictional college friends before.
He’s lied to May a lot in the past few years.
He rides the J back to Queens still with his brain in a haze, and mindlessly climbs the outside wall of his apartment building, following the shadows of sunset. He opens his well-oiled bedroom window and drops his bag of schoolwork inside, substituting it for his suit and goggles for patrol.
"Peter?"
Peter's heart jumps, and he scrabbles outside just in time before his door creaks open.
"Peter, are you--oh."
There's a beat of silence, then May sighs and walks to the window.
"Can't leave that open, kid, someone's gonna come steal our debt..." she mutters, sliding it shut.
Guilt surges in Peter's chest as he sticks to the brick wall, listening intently for her retreating footsteps with a thundering heart. When she's gone, he pulls the red mask over his face and decides to go back to Manhattan, something beyond his spidey-sense drawing him to the city.
He should say yes to Tony Stark's offer, of course. It’s probably insane that he didn’t do so immediately—but it doesn’t feel real yet.
The truth is that he is deeply embarrassed by his behavior last night. He must have come off as utterly ungrateful, and clueless to boot. Assuming Stark would be interested in him that way was a giant, mortifying mistake, and Peter wishes he could redo the scene more than anything. Stark has hordes of people throwing themselves at his feet, and those hordes have only grown in number since his infamous change of heart. Ugh. The look on his face when Peter dropped to his knees—
“Mom, mom, look! It’s Spider-Man!”
Peter waves at a pre-teen and her family and swings himself around the corner of Broadway and 34th, and in his peripheral vision the thrust of Stark Tower’s silhouette catches his eye.
It’s a staple of the New York skyline. Rumor has it Stark lives in the penthouse, and his well-documented workaholic tendencies permit him to swing down to his offices as he pleases. In fact, an intern wrote an opinion piece in the New York Times about her nighttime encounter with the then-CEO of the company, and about how Stark didn't hit on her once; instead he was surprisingly gracious, generous, and willing to teach nanoparticle physics well into the morning.
Rumor also has it that Stark helps fund the Iron Man’s nighttime activities from there, though of course no one has been brave enough to openly accuse Tony Stark of that kind of vigilante endorsement.
Distracted by his thoughts, Peter suddenly has to flail to latch his newest web onto the Wicked poster screen and not face-plant on the pavement.
“Okay, that was way too close,” he pants to himself, exhales puffing against the cloth, and a few minutes later he lands on the rooftop of a low brick building to catch his breath.
Which is, of course, when he gets shot.
He feels the stab of pain before he hears the sound, a sharp burst of agony in his left shoulder and then the silencer-spit of the gun, and his spidey-senses haven't failed him so spectacularly in a very long time.
Turns out, he wasn’t even the intended target— it was a stray bullet and pure chance, as a man on the street down below is clearly fleeing a drive-by. Peter leaps to the ground to stop it, and a few seconds later the unmarked van is driving right into his webbing trap and getting stuck in it.
He webs every door shut for good measure so that the police will find them conveniently ready to be arrested.
"Shit, Spider-Man! Did you get hit?”
Peter turns to the man he just saved. He could have run away during the commotion, but he didn't.
"I'm fine." The man's eyes widen and Peter realizes that his voice came out like a squeak, and totally gave away his age. He clears his throat and stands a bit straighter, ignoring his throbbing shoulder. "I'm good, man,” he growls, nearing the Batman register. “Get out of here."
To his credit, the man doesn't need to be told twice; he sprints away without so much as a 'thank you'--but Peter stopped expecting those ages ago.
Instead, he slings himself a couple of blocks away and hides in someone's rooftop garden. His shoulder really hurts, but he has to check to see if there's an exit wound. He’s been shot enough times to know what happens when there isn’t one.
"Please have a hole," he mutters to himself, wincing as he twists his neck to look. He does not feel like digging around his insides with tweezers, he is too tired, if the universe could just give him this one break, please... "Please have a hole, please have a hole..."
The back of his bloody blue shirt has an exit hole to compliment the entry on his front.
"Thank God."
He lets out all the air in his lungs in a sob of relief and suddenly his legs give in, knees hitting the floor.
He'll rest for a moment. He just got shot, he can take a five-minute break.
He pulls the cloth mask away from his mouth, gulping in the night air and making a mental note to experiment with better materials for breathability—when he can afford them. Seconds tick by as the sounds of New York City at night filter in and out of his sensitive hearing... distant sirens call him in northeast and southwest directions simultaneously; someone is shouting in anger four blocks away; a dog barks furiously in one of the apartments of the building across the street...
Unfortunately, as he kneels amidst this stranger's well-kept plants and fairy lights, he can't help his thoughts from drifting back to the memory of kneeling for Mr Stark in the bathroom. Stark's kind eyes had seemed genuine, but nothing in Peter’s life has been that easy. It seems insane that something so good would drop into his lap without a catch.
Because the catch certainly isn’t that Mr Stark wants to sleep with him. The disgust in his eyes when he stumbled away from Peter was real, and humiliating, and that at least is in line with how things usually go for him. Of course, his childhood hero, the one man Peter would have happily had sex with for free, doesn’t want him. And maybe at some point he'll stop wallowing about that fact, but today is looking like it won't be that day.
Man, he’s pathetic.
“Get it together, Parker,” he mutters to himself. "You haven't totally screwed it up yet. Offer still stands."
Stark gave him a cell number to call when he made his decision, and there’s no doubt in Peter’s mind it’ll be his publicist’s, or one of his interns’ numbers. He wonders what Stark told them about why Peter will call. A tiny part of him is still worried that it was the most elaborate billionaire prank ever, and someone at the other end of the line is going to laugh themselves sick. He wonders if Stark wants to interrogate him about the arc reactor core—
Movement.
There’s a reflective speck heading towards Stark Tower. Something airborne.
Peter frowns and squints, his excellent vision not quite excellent enough to give him a clear sense for what the projectile is. It’s not going fast enough to be a missile—but then again who knows.
His shoulder still hurts but the new flood of adrenalin dispels any exhaustion he might have been feeling. He tugs his mask back on, jumps to his feet and starts to run, and then starts webbing his way over there, fast, faster, watching the flying object get closer and closer to the roof of the Tower, wondering whether he’s about to bear witness to the attempted murder of Tony Stark (wondering whether his moment of respite cost him the precious seconds needed to prevent it).
As he gets closer to the building the figure lands on the roof, and he realizes it’s just that; a landing. Not a projectile, but a visitor.
So it’s true? he thinks to himself, relieved and intrigued all at once. Tony Stark is funding the Iron Man?
He jumps from a nearby rooftop onto the 40th floor and attaches to the paneling of the Tower, this time taking a moment to tune in with his spidey-senses. Tapping into them feels like stretching an overused muscle lately--a limb that is sore, and fatigued. But he pushes himself to deliberately feel out any obvious traps, or signs that he triggered the security system.
Nothing rings any bells, so he starts to climb, careful as the nighttime breeze becomes the nighttime wind, buffeting his frame the further up he goes. His shoulder aches and his left arm feels weak, but he pushes past the pain. The steady trickle of blood has slowed to a drip by the time he's nearing the top.
The second he crawls over the lip at the edge he realizes just how colossal his mistake was.
“Tony,” a female voice projects over well-hidden speakers. “There is an intruder on the roof.”
Floodlights erupt out of nowhere and bathe Peter’s prone frame in blinding white focus.
“Would you like me to eliminate him?” the female voice asks politely in an Irish accent.
“Whoa, whoa, hey!” Peter yells, rolling to lie on his back and lifting his hands in the air. “Please don’t eliminate me!”
He hears a confusing cacophony of metallic clatters and clacks, and the swish of automated doors. He can barely see past the wattage being aimed at him despite his protective goggles.
“I come in peace, Mr Iron Man, sir!”
“Stand down, FRIDAY,” says a tinny metal voice, and the floodlights dim.
Peter unsquints his eyes and blinks a few times, trying to adjust to the spots. He can tell that the large outline of a man is walking towards him, but that’s about it. The footsteps sound heavy.
“Why are you on my roof?”
“I... uh, was coming to save you?”
Things start to come into focus and Peter’s belly swoops when he realizes the massive frame of the Iron Man is standing over him, in all of its up-close gleaming glory. Mythical. Legendary. Epic. And with the glowing arc reactor in the middle of his chest.
“You... were going to save me.”
This is bad. Peter can’t afford to be on Iron Man’s radar; the main reason he’s managed to keep his identity a secret is that he’s kept things small scale.
“I have... powers.” He has never sounded lamer.
“Yes, I recognize the fashion crime that is that onesie from YouTube and TikTok. I think I saw you lift a car a couple of weeks ago--you’re the-ah, Spider-Guy. Spider-Boy. Right? Spider... something, I can never remember.”
His voice sounds...
“Spider-Man,” Peter says.
“That’s the one.” He clicks his fingers, which makes a slick metallic noise. “Thought you operated mostly in Queens, Spider-Man.”
“I usually do.”
The impassive chrome head tilts slightly sideways, considering. His figure looms truly enormous, and would be terrifying if his intonation wasn’t starting to sound really familiar.
“You sound like a boy to me, kid.”
Peter pitches his own voice at a lower register (if not quite Batman levels this time). “I’m not a kid.”
“By what metric? Because I'd like to know what the state of New York has to say about—hey."
Abruptly, a plated arm points at Peter's shoulder, and when he speaks next his tone is completely different and completely serious.
"Is that blood?”
His voice has almost exactly the same timber as—
“Kid—are you shot?”
And with a whirr the helmet opens to reveal Tony Stark’s concerned face.
Peter feels his mouth drop open as the Iron Man armor rattles apart, allowing Mr Stark to quickly walk out of it and drop down to crouch over Peter’s frame.
“Y-you’re... Iron Man...?”
“When did this happen?” Stark snaps at Peter, and he immediately sets to tearing the sleeve of Peter’s shirt open to get a look at his shoulder, palpating Peter’s bare skin with surprisingly rough hands. “How is your breathing? Is there an exit wound?”
“I—“
Stark leans forward and looks for himself, and nods at what he sees. “Okay, good. How is your breathing?”
“I—s’fine, you... you’re, you’re the Iron Man—“
“Yeah, yeah, who saw that coming.” He makes a dismissive hand gesture. “FRIDAY, please call Dr Cho, we have an emergency in the Tower.”
That command finally snaps Peter out of his revelation stupor.
“N-no, no, I’m fine.” He squirms away from Stark’s strong grip, skin exposed to the chilly air, sleeve hanging. “I have... powers. I-I’ll heal.”
Stark blinks.
“Please. Please don’t call a doctor.”
“You’re worried about your secret identity?”
Peter shrugs, then immediately regrets it. Ow. “Such as it is.”
It makes Stark snort in amusement. “‘Such as it is’...” he echoes, and shuffles closer to Peter again, though he doesn’t touch him. “Okay. Fine, no doctors. FRIDAY, you get that?"
"Yes, sir."
"Will you let me patch you up, at least?”
Peter thinks about it. The odds of him staying here and not being found out are abysmal, but he could keep his mask and goggles on and Stark might not put two-and-two together. After all, in Stark’s mind Peter is a high-end escort he met at an event across the city, in a context so different from this one as to be laughable.
“I should clarify that I phrased that as a question, and I believe in bodily autonomy and all that, but I am not going to let you bleed out on my roof.” Stark’s eyes are stern, and it is profoundly stupid for Peter’s libido to take any interest in that. He’s been shot, surely that should inactivate it. “Or anywhere else, for that matter. I’ll hold you here if I have to, kid.”
Fuck.
“I... no offense, but you’d need your suit to do that. Healing isn’t my only superpower.”
“Oh I know that. But I hope it doesn’t come to a fight, because I am prepared to pin you down.” He smirks. "And not in the fun, obviously sexual way that came out, for the record."
Peter deflates. “I won’t fight you, sir.”
“Good."
He gingerly gets to his feet, Mr Stark hovering in front of him with his arms partially outstretched like he's afraid Peter's about to pass out and fall on him.
Iron Man is worried about him. Iron Man. The most famous superhero in the world just offered to stitch up Peter's little patrol wound. And that makes twice in two days that Peter has responded to a kind, generous and selfless offer from this man with what amounts to guarded rudeness.
"I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, by the way," Peter tells him, sincerely. “It’s just... it’s... a lot.”
"Don't worry about—“ But Mr Stark goes silent, and suddenly Peter feels the atmosphere alter completely.
He just gave away something--something he won’t be able to take back.
Stark’s inky black eyes are wide with shock, and there’s no way he... he can’t have recognized him... already?
“Peter?”